


Damned

by Nexanda77



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Demon!Dean, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, Hell, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mark of Cain, Post Season 9, Post-Episode: s09e23 Do You Believe In Miracles?, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 15:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1904172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nexanda77/pseuds/Nexanda77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester, a hunter remembered as one of the greatest, now sits on the throne in Hell as king. The Mark of Cain on his arm and the black eyes that stare back at him in the mirror remind him of just how far he has fallen. When Cas finds him will he be able to save Dean as he did once before, or are there some things even an angel can’t fix?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damned

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I’m too poor to own Supernatural. I just borrowed the characters to torture them for a little while.  
> Warnings: Takes place post season 9 so there will be spoilers if you haven’t seen the finale. (aka Demon!Dean) Lots of talk about blood and violence. Also Destiel so if you don’t like don’t read.  
> *Crossposted to FF Net*

Dean had long since given up on finding a comfortable way to sit on the hard throne. The rough black stone hadn’t been shaped for comfort, it had been shaped to instill fear and awe in anyone brave enough to face the King of Hell in his seat of power. 

He hadn't moved or even fidgeted for hours. Or possibly it had been days, weeks, years. In Hell a minute could feel like a month and a decade passed in the blink of an eye.

From his perch on the throne’s dais hanging over a pit, Dean stared down at the kingdom he had killed Crowley for stretched out for miles below. A cloud of ash hid the deepest parts. The muffled screams that reached him were a permanent reminder that down there was the Rack and all the tortured souls stuck in their eternal punishment. 

As Dean watched, fires spontaneously ignited in the ash cloud. The flames crackled and died out only to be replaced again by another spark. Their ever changing pattern mirrored his own flaring emotions fueled by the Mark of Cain on his arm. His back rigid and his hands clenched tightly to the black marble, he willed it to stop, but he had long since learned the fires of Hell could never be doused completely.

The clicking of high heels announced the woman ascending the steps towards him, but he pretended not to notice. The sharp sound came to a halt at the top step, but the echo carried on, fading out as it fell into the abyss.

"Sir?"

Even when she spoke he kept his gaze locked on the dark depths of his kingdom. He refused to lift his head to look her in the eye, knowing he would only see black pools showing him his reflection. And his eyes would be the same as her’s.

"Have you made your decision?"

He hadn’t, but he couldn’t admit that. It would make him look weak and at any sign of weakness the demons under his control might try to rise against him. 

The decision she spoke of was one he’d had to make many times before, but as always it made him sick to even think about. A prisoner down on the Rack had served his allotted time and now it was the King of Hell’s job to decide what to do with him. Return the poor soul to the Rack or promote the tortured to torturer and send him to mangle others. 

“Sir?”

In the ash cloud, several fires burst to life with a loud snap and her heels clicked again in a step back.

With a minimal movement, Dean turned his head and let his gaze fall on the demon. Long black hair matched black eyes that watched him warily. The sight of them ignited the Mark of Cain on his arm and his fingers twitched towards the crude blade that hung on his hip.

He clenched the arm of his throne tighter as he fought the whispering urge inside him. For a moment heat seared down his arm over the Mark and the edges of his vision turned red. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced the feeling to dissipate.

The heat simmered down to a tolerable level and Dean blinked to see the red gone. His lip curled in a smile to see the fearful look the demon tried to hide. She stood on the very edge of the dais that jutted out from the rock wall. A lesser demon might believe that it was out of respect for her leader that she didn't stand closer, but respect had nothing to do with it. Those who worked directly with Dean knew from experience that the King of Hell was prone to lashing out at any demon who dared to get within striking range.

“Has the prisoner been prepared?” Dean asked in a low voice that forced her to lean in to hear.

She nodded, shifting the clipboard clutched in her arms. “He has been taken to cell 49,677,915. The guards posted there have been told to expect you.”

With a grunt of acknowledgement Dean pushed himself to his feet, feeling his stiff and cramping muscles protest at the sudden movement after sitting for so long. The demon also reacted, jumping back and nearly losing her balance on the precarious steps that led down to the pit below the dais. Her knuckles were white and when Dean held his hand out to her she flinched.

Irritated, Dean tapped on her clipboard. “His file.”

“O-of course,” she said - almost squeaked - and pulled a thick folder from behind the other papers.

Dean reached for it and in the exchange his fingers brushed against her’s. Her hand drew back with a jerk as if his touch was poisonous.

Trying not to let on that he had noticed her reaction, Dean flipped open the file to read, but the heat returning to the Mark on his arm made it impossible to concentrate. Raising his head to glare at the black eyes watching him, he said through gritted teeth, “Leave.”

The demon didn’t need to be told twice and turned into a stream of black smoke that shot away from him as fast as it could down one of the tunnels leading off the main pit. 

With her gone the burning in his arm lessened and letting out a sigh Dean raised his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. The Mark of Cain was becoming more sensitive. All the fighting he had done in the war to take over Hell from Crowley had at the time been enough to satisfy the Mark’s appetite for violence, but at Crowley’s death the demons surrendered to him and the constant fighting stopped. Now the Mark was once more calling for blood. The smallest annoyances set it off and each time he ignored the whisperings it got harder to make the burning go away.

Dean knew it would be futile in the end to fight the urges, but still he tried. It was a losing battle, but surrendering without a fight would be giving up the last thread of hope that he could keep it from turning him into a complete monster. That thread was small and fragile, but he clung to it like a life line. Each time the Mark on his arm burned he would ignore it as long as he could, hoping that maybe this time he could prevail and the curse of the Mark of Cain would leave him. But he always ended up caving to the Mark’s power. He couldn’t control it; it controlled him.

When he had been human he’d thought dying would free him. He almost welcomed Metatron’s blade when it’s cold point pierced his heart, thinking it would all be over, but the Mark of Cain wouldn’t let him go so easily. Immortality was just another check box on the list of tortures the Mark used on its bearer. And immortality as a demon, no less. The salt in the wound that doubled the pain.

He would rather be dead than one of the monsters he’d sworn to kill. So when he found out what it turned him into, he pretended he was.

Knowing Sam would try and bring him back somehow regardless of anything his little brother had said before, Dean wrote out his will on the back of a fast food napkin. He pretend to have written it before going after Metatron and asked Sam to let him go if things went bad. He left it on the driver’s seat of the Impala, laying a hand on the worn steering wheel for the last time, and hoped Sam would honor his last request. 

And Cas...most of the time Dean tried not to think about Cas, but some nights when Hell was the coldest he would trace the handprint on his arm, letting all his regrets pass through his mind.

Trying not to dwell on the life he left behind, Dean tucked the file under his arm and started down the steps that hugged the edge of the abyss.

Tunnels led off of the staircase at regular intervals, each leading to rows of cells that held the prisoners of Hell. He was a prisoner as well, but his cage was a throne and he had accepted it willingly. He lay claim to Hell, ruling it to put a stop to crossroads deals and demonic possessions in the world above, but he was tired now and the sacrifices he had made left him empty inside.

From what Dean could tell, over sixty years had passed in the world above since he first took his seat on that throne. He spent the time living in fear of seeing Sam, Lisa, or Ben's face in the crowd of newly dead and damned. He prayed everyday that he never would, but he was sure prayers from Hell never made it to Heaven.

Heaven. Everyone there had their own private space decorated to fit them perfectly for eternity, but down in Hell it didn't work like that. The damned lived in misery together. It was Dean's mind that chose the way it looked and everyone saw the hopelessness he saw. Most of the time it was a labyrinth with no exit, but when Dean hit his lowest points it became an abyss that crackled with fires born of rage.

Dean came to the tunnel that held the cell he was looking for. Walking down the dark corridor, he ignored the lifeless eyes that watched him through the bars of the cells that lined the way. A wheezing cackle echoed against the stone walls and passing the cell it emanated from, Dean glanced in to see an old man with a dirty beard and pure white eyes sitting in the corner.

The blind man turned to Dean as if he could see and the maniacal laughing redoubled. Glaring, Dean continued on.

Demons acting as guards were posted along the twisting tunnel. Seeing their king approach they stiffened and pressed themselves against the walls. Two black eyed men stood on either side of a cell door with the number 49677915 carved at the top. Like the others they stood at attention as Dean approached.

“The prisoner is ready, sir,” the one on the right said, careful not to make eye contact.

“Then open the door,” Dean replied and the guards jumped like he had yelled. The one with the key fumbled it slightly and glanced at Dean. For a brief moment his eyes met Dean’s and in the mirror like surface of the dark pools there Dean could see how all the others saw him. 

The black eyed demon he saw in the reflection sent a pulse of heat out of the Mark of Cain, but the guard turned away and the feeling was gone. As the guard got the key in the lock and swung the cell door open, Dean rubbed at the Mark knowing it was still itching to release its power.

It scared him. The loss of control always had and always would terrify him, but he couldn’t afford to let it show. He pushed the fear out of his mind as he passed the guards and entered the prisoner’s cell.

Only once he was in the cramped grimy space did he realize he had never come to a decision. 

At the back wall the prisoner dressed in rags stood watching Dean with a tight lipped smile on the side of his face that hadn’t been destroyed by what looked like an acid burn. To send him back to the Rack to torture or be tortured, Dean had to decide now. He had been too concerned with his own misery to remember his duties as King and now he was going to have to bluff through or risk appearing foolish to the demons outside. 

“Sit,” Dean said, trying to invoke as much command as he could into his voice. He snapped his fingers and a steel table and two chairs appeared at the center of the room. The prisoner silently sat and Dean did the same across from him. Dean dropped the prisoner’s file on the table and flipped it open in a way that he hoped looked casual. 

In truth he skimmed the details as fast as he could. Born, died, came to Hell in 1936. Sentenced to be the Rack for 125 years of earth time. Listed under the reasons for being damned were all the sins he’d committed during his life at the top of which was serial killer. 

Dean leaned back in his chair and regarded the man before him. “Thomas Long,” Dean said, glancing down at the file as he spoke to make sure he got the name right. “You've got quite the rap sheet here Tom. Care to explain it to me.”

“Not much to say,” Tom replied, his disfigured face stretching unpleasantly to get the words out. “All right there on paper, if you’d bothered to read.” The almost bored tone to his voice caught Dean by surprise. No one talked to the King of Hell with such disrespect.

Standing so his chair slid back against the floor with an abrupt screech, Dean shoved the file across the table and flipped it to the page listing the innocent people Tom had killed to earn his one way ticket to Hell. “Explain,” Dean said, grabbing the front of Tom’s shirt and jerking his head down to stare at the page.

A grin spread across Tom’s face. “Cindy Barkley,” he said, reading the first name on the list. “Oh I remember her. The way she screamed and screamed. Couldn’t do much of that after I cut her throat.” 

Dean let go of Tom’s shirt, drawing his hand back to scratch at the Mark of Cain warming at Tom’s words. The red tinge on the edges of his vision was back.

“Then there’s Mary Richards,” Tom said, chuckling to himself. “She promised she would do anything, anything, if I let her live.” He continued chuckling and flipped the page, scanning down the list. “Lauren Weller. Feisty little bitch that one. Fought me tooth and nail all the way to the very end.”

Dean grunted, his eyes darting to the First Blade that hung at his hip and then back to Tom who was watching him, grinning. Mistaking Dean’s reaction as being impressed, Tom tapped on another name on the list.

“Anna Norris prayed the whole time. Calling to God to save her like there was anyone up there listen-”

“Why?” Dean demanded through gritted teeth. His arm felt as if it was engulfed in flames and the whispers in mind urged him to sink the First Blade into Tom. 

Tom tilted his head questioningly. “Why what?”

Dean banged his fist on the table, relishing at the satisfaction the small show of violence gave him. “Why’d you kill them?” He growled out.

Blind to the warning signs, Tom had a smug smile on his face as he replied, “Simple. Want. Thought you’d already know that seeing as how alike we are.”

It took a moment for Dean to find the voice to reply and when he did it was with forced confidence that he said, “I’m nothing like you.”

Tom must have heard the doubt in his voice and folded his hands behind his head as he leaned back comfortably in his chair. “Sure about that?” He asked, smiling. “Then tell me, why does a demon like you kill?”

The question hit him with such shock that it kept Dean from diving across the table to throttle Tom at that moment. His hands gripped the edge of the table hard enough to be painful, but he was too distracted by the Mark on his arm burning and fueling whispered encouragements in his mind to notice. “Keep that smirk on your face if you want,” Dean said in a low voice. “It’s your own skin that’s going to be roasting on the Rack again.”

A hard frown spread across Tom’s face and he sat up straighter. “I did my time,” he said and Dean smiled in a way that was more like a feral animal baring its teeth.

“Good for you. You want a gold star?” Tom looked ready to fire off a retort, but Dean didn’t give him the chance. “I’m king of this joint and I can send you wherever I want,” he said, swiping the file off the table. He created a pen and a new contract out of thin air and took his seat once more. “So I’m thinking another hundred years will poke a few holes in that pride of yours.”

Tom’s eyes went wide. “No!” he said, jerking and kicking the leg of the table. “You can’t send me back there. I served my time!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean said, already filling out the paper work. “New sentence. New time to serve.”

“I could be useful you know.” The surly man Tom had been moments ago was gone. “I heard once you get off the Rack you get to torture the other souls. I can do that.” He reached across the table as he spoke, trying to keep Dean from writing.

Dean felt Tom’s clammy hand start to close around his wrist and jerked away. In a second the heat in his arm redoubled and the pain of ignoring the urges did the same. 

“I can do that,” Tom repeated. “I can rip them apart. All those other souls. I can do it if you let me.”

Dean stood, the new contract and pen clenched in his hand as he walked around the table. He slammed them down in front of Tom. “Sign it,” he said through gritted teeth. The red on the edge of his vision started to creep in. He blinked hard in the hopes of dispelling it, but he was losing control.

“I can torture them for you,” Tom begged. “Please. Don’t send me back.”

“I said sign it, damn it,” Dean shouted and the First Blade was in his hand, pressed to Tom’s throat.

Blood pounded in Dean’s ears, so loud he could barely hear Tom’s whispered, “Okay,” over it. His breath came out in short gasps and the killer instinct inside him tingled in anticipation.

Tom finished his signature and let the pen slip out of his fingers. He leaned as far away from Dean as he could, trying to get away from the blade on his neck, and with considerable effort, Dean forced himself to sheath the First Blade once more.

The Mark on his arm pulsed in frustration, but he forced himself to ignore it. He could feel Tom’s wide eyes watching him as he took the signed new contract damning Tom to another long sentence on the rack. Dean opened Tom’s file to put the contract in as he made his way to the cell door. He paused with his hand on the handle, staring at the names of all Tom’s victims.

The whisperings in his mind came back in full force.

Tom was a serial killer. Someone who’d thought it fun to torture and kill innocent people. His soul was black and deserved everything Hell did to him and more. Nothing could kill a soul, but Dean wanted to give it his best shot.

Dean reached for the First Blade as he turned back around. Tom saw the killer instinct in his eyes and jumped out of his seat, knocking the chair backwards. It fell to the ground with a crash loud enough to be heard outside the cell door. The demon guards who had been outside burst into the cell and pulled up short beside their king.

“Sir?” The one closest to Dean asked, looking between the cowering prisoner in the corner and Dean’s scowl. 

The pages of the file in his hand crunched in his grip and Dean all but threw it at the guard. “Send him back to the Rack,” he said, heading for the door. He looked back over his shoulder to give Tom one more icy glare. “I’m sure he’s been missed.”

Ignoring the guards stunned expressions, Dean stormed out of the cell and back down the cellblock hallway outside. 

The Mark urged him to turn back and put Tom in his place, but he narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists, walking on. The guards that lined the hallway once more snapped to attention fast, but even more than before they pressed themselves back against the walls at the sight of their fuming king. In his mind, Dean fought the torrent of rage threatening to take him over, but it was like trying to push back the tide with a broom.

“Something troubling you, sonny?”

Dean halted and looked to his right at the cell where the croaked, mocking voice had come from. “Excuse me?” He said with a dangerous edge to his voice as the prisoner who had spoken came to the bars. 

It was the same prisoner who had laughed at him earlier on Dean’s way to speak with Tom. Under the knotted gray beard there was a smile that didn’t reach the prisoner’s pure white blind eyes.

Blood dripped down his forehead from the top of his head where part of his scalp was missing, but the prisoner was too focused on Dean to notice. With an expression of glee that was out of place on someone stuck in Hell, the prisoner said, “The high and mighty Dean Winchester has been thrown down this dark hole with the rest of us.”

Dean hadn’t believed the Mark of Cain could burn hotter, but at the prisoner’s words it flared and Dean had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out. His breath quickened and his heart raced as he dragged himself away, tearing his eyes from the blind ones glued to him.

“The King too good for the scum of his own land?” The prisoner called after him and Dean stopped in his tracks once more. “Don’t let the title fool you,” the prisoner said as Dean turned back to face him. “You’re no different than any of us.”

Faces appeared at the bars of the cells close by. The demon guards looked on curiously too. Everyone waited to see what the King of Hell would do.

“You’re marked by evil,” the prisoner said, pressing up against the bars. “I can see it. It’s burned into your soul. Stop pretending that you are better than Hell - that you deserve a better fate than the one you’ve been dealt.”

Dean’s fingers twitched, hovering over the First Blade.

“You will spend eternity down here. Alone, miserable, hating every second of your damned existence and knowing it’s really you who should be torn apart on the Rack.” At his final words, the prisoner spat at Dean.

Every nerve ending felt like it was on fire as Dean slowly wiped his cheek. He looked down at his hand to see the red tinge of blood mixed in with spit. His own blood pounded in his ears as Dean wiped his hand on his pants.

"Open the door," Dean said in a calm voice that didn’t reflect the storm swelling inside him. The prisoner's blinded eyes widened just a fraction and Dean's lip curled to see him take a step back. The nearest guard hurried forward at the command with a rusting key from his keyring that held a thousand more just like it.

The Mark on Dean’s arm burned hotter as the old lock was forced open. The guard moved back, careful to keep as far away from his king as possible.

The prisoner had slunk into the shadows of his cell leaving Dean only able to see his pale eyes standing out in the dark. With a hard jerk Dean threw the door open and let it slam against the rock wall. 

From its scabbard on his waist, Dean drew out the First Blade. The burning in his arm redoubled at the feeling of it in his hand. The pain was immense but the power that filled his core was greater. The part of Dean that hated the Mark for the fate it had brought vanished as the spirit of rage that the first murderer had passed to him took over. With a smile, Dean stepped into the insolent prisoner's cell.

…

The hot water steamed as it flowed out of the tap, slowly washing away the half-dried blood coating Dean’s hands. He could feel the Mark of Cain stirring once more at the sight of the red-stained water circling the drain. Pulling his hands out of the stream from the faucet, Dean let out a small despairing groan. Hacking the prisoner to pieces had only satisfied the Mark for an hour.

He could still see it in his mind. The blind eyes, half lidded, and the stump of what had once been a hand stretched out to block the next blow as the First Blade, already soaked in blood, came swinging down.

The Mark burned hotter in approval of the memories flooding Dean’s mind.

The echos of the prisoner’s screams rang once more in Dean’s ears. He could feel the shudder sweeping up his arm from the blade digging into flesh and striking bone. In his gut there was a warmth growing. A feeling of happiness at the thought of what he had done. The bloody water on his hands was starting to dry and he smiled, running a thumb over the red trails.

He raised his head and caught sight of his reflection in the bathroom mirror, still cracked from the last time the sight of his own black eyes had set off the Mark. His black eyes were there again with a maniacal grin on his face and blood on his hands.

The demon in the mirror wanted to find another prisoner - or maybe a demon this time - and sink the first blade into them. More pain, more violence, more blood.

With a lurch, Dean pushed himself away from the sink and stumbled to the toilet, reaching it just in time to retch into it. He stayed there until there was nothing left but bile coming up and even then his body continued to heave, trying to purge itself of the memories of every despicable thing he had done with the Mark of Cain. 

What would Sam think if he knew what he had done? His father? Bobby? As his vision blurred from the tears he held back all he could see was Cas’ face, blue eyes staring, horrified to see what he had become.

Dean cut off the sob rising in his throat before he made a sound and looked up, breathing hard. His hands were still stained with blood. Swaying, he stood and returned to the sink. He scrubbed furiously at the blood stuck in the lines of his palms, keeping his head bent low to avoid meeting the gaze of the demon in the mirror.

The hot water seared his skin as it washed the blood away, but it was nothing compared to the heat of the Mark in its anger at being ignored. He scrubbed harder. The whispering urges in his head grew louder, reminding him of the enjoyment of killing.

Dean washed all the blood away and the Mark simmered. He kept scrubbing through, moving from his hands to the raised scar of the Mark of Cain on his forearm. It would do no good, but all Dean could think about was getting rid of the awful thing. Minutes passed and the skin around it turned red and raw, but the Mark was as resilient as ever.

Finally, he had to stop. He shut the water off and dried his hands only to find them shaking uncontrollably. His breath came out in gasps and his chest was tight. He grabbed at the First Blade hanging on his hip and gripped the handle. A sigh passed his lips and his shoulders relaxed. With his hand on it, he felt in control, powerful. He hated himself for liking it, but like a junkie returning to his dealer, he always ended up with the First Blade in his hand again.

_Thump-Thump-Thump ___

Dean turned in surprise at the sound coming from his room. It wasn’t like the way his demon underlings usually knocked, all hesitant and unsure. The knock he heard was heavy - maybe a little desperate - and urgent.

It took a moment to force his fingers to uncurl from the First Blade. He swallowed the feeling of need that returned when he let it go and left the bathroom. His room beyond was dim and empty save for the sparse furniture made of black wood and sharp corners that had been there when he moved in after taking over Hell. None would call it fit for a king, but for a demon it was more than enough.

_Thump. ___

Dean stomped over to the door, already running through his head the swears he would shout to scare off whatever demon had come to bother him, but when he wrenched open the door he forgot it all.

He was met with blue eyes instead of black and he froze with his mouth hanging open because there is no way Castiel _Castiel _could be standing at his door.__

All the years that had passed hadn’t changed the angel much. His hair was more disheveled, his jaw was scruffy with a half grown beard, and his trenchcoat was dirty, but his eyes, wide with surprise, were the same.

“Dean…” Cas said, straightening up with one hand gripping the door frame tight. “It...it’s true. You’re…” He stared into Dean’s eyes, brow furrowing as he struggled for the words. 

Dean knew the word he was looking for. Demon.

He turned his head, too ashamed to hold Cas’ stare. Instead he focused on Cas’ mud caked shoes and asked, “How’d you know to find me here?” He was supposed to be dead as far as anyone knew.

“There was talk that reached Heaven about the new King of Hell,” Cas said and took half a step forward, swaying as he let go of the door frame. “I had to see if...had to see you for myself.”

Cas tried to take another step forward, but he stumbled, one foot tripping over the other. His shoulder hit Dean’s chest and instinctively Dean wrapped an arm around him to steady him.

“Cas,” Dean said, his head jerking back up to look at Cas whose face was twisted in a grimace. Dean momentarily forgot that he was trying to hide his black eyes from Cas and looked him over properly for the first time.

Cas’ trademark trenchcoat was covered in dirt and ripped in several places. The blue tie he usually wore was missing and his suit was crumpled. Most alarming was the way Cas leaned so heavily against Dean, half bent over with a hand pressed against his right side.

“What happened?” Dean asked, using all his willpower not to flinch and look away when Cas met his eyes.

“The door in purgatory was hard to find,” Cas said, hissing as he straightened up.

“Door?” Dean repeated, keeping a firm grip on Cas’ shoulder. “You mean the back door to Hell? That’s how you got here?”

Cas nodded breathing hard. “Hard to find,” he repeated between gasps. He cringed again and Dean tightened his hold on him to keep him upright. “Monsters tired me greatly. I used...I used too much of my power,” Cas said, his eyes squeezed shut. “I can’t heal myself. Dean I...I need…your help.”

Cas pulled his hand off his side and Dean jumped back, pushing Cas away from him.

Cas made a sound between a grunt and a whimper as his back hit the wall. His legs buckled, but he grabbed the edge of a desk beside him to keep himself up. “Dean…”

But Dean didn’t hear him. He was too focused on the ugly red splotch staining Cas’ shredded suit jacket and white dress shirt. Both the jacket and shirt were cut to ribbons and underneath Cas’ skin had fared no better.

Heat exploded over the Mark of Cain and Dean clutched at it, taking a step back at the force of anger and need for violence that hit him at the sight of Cas’ blood dripping onto the floor.

“What’s wrong?” Cas asked, reaching out the hand not clinging to the desk for support. A hand that had blood on it.

Dean’s vision turned red on the edges and unbidden thoughts of more blood dripping to the floor filled his mind. “G-get away,” Dean said, gripping the Mark so tight he felt like he might draw his own blood. “You can’t be here, Cas.”

Cas took a slow step forward, still holding onto the desk for support. “Dean, I don’t-”

“Leave,” Dean shouted, feeling the pressure building in him as the whispers in his mind grew louder. “Go before I-” The Mark flared hotter as Cas took another step and Dean grit his teeth, letting out a sound like a growl.

His fingers twitched, needing the First Blade. To hold it would relieve the pressure. To swing it would satisfy the Mark. He remembered the rush he felt attacking the prisoner earlier. The feeling it had given him had been incredible. A high he needed. He could feel it again. All he had to do was pull out the blade and-

But this was Cas.

Cas standing before him, searching his ugly black eyes for some hint of his old friend. Cas asking for help, in pain and reaching out for him. This was Cas. Dean would sooner let the Mark burn him up from the inside out then lift the First Blade against Cas.

Sensing his resistance, the heat in arm redoubled, sending bolts of pain searing through him. He groaned, knowing he sounded pathetic and not caring. His eyes clenched shut and he fought against the urges, but he’d never been able to hold them back for long.

“Dean, what’s wrong?” Cas asked. Dean’s eyes shot open, feeling a hand with something warm and sticky on it grab his own.

“Cas, no,” Dean said, ending in a whimper as every fiber in his being screamed for him to attack. Only the force of his will held him back, but it was crumbling fast. There was so much blood. “Leave…please...I can’t…”

He tried to pull away, but Cas’ grip was like iron. Dean fought, twisting every way he could and using his other hand to pry Cas’ fingers off. Cas fought back, demanding Dean to answer him, but screaming urges in Dean’s head drowned everything else out.

All he knew was the burning of the Mark and the pain of resisting it. The rage inside him with no basis was taking over. A fist he didn’t know he formed swung out, connecting with Cas’ jaw in a solid smack, and Cas let go.

The First Blade was in Dean’s hand and what was left of his senses could do nothing, but cry out from the back of his mind where the power of the Mark had pushed them. He lifted the blade up, ready to swing it down and bring the blood his urges had been demanding. It started down in its deadly arc, but before it could reach its target Cas tackled Dean, knocking him flat on his back.

All the fight in Dean vanished in an instant. The fingers that had been locked around the blade’s hilt went limp and it fell with a dull thump to the floor. The Mark on his arm was warm, but it was nothing compared to the inferno it had been a moment ago. He turned his head to look at it only to see it covered by Cas’ hand gripping his arm.

“How…” Dean said. Cas was sprawled on top of him and Dean could only stare in shock up at Cas eyes only a few inches above him own. “How are you doing that?”

Cas grunted as he pushed himself off of Dean to sit on the ground beside him. One hand kept the firm grip over the Mark while he pressed the other against his injured side. “I’m not doing anything, Dean,” Cas said. 

“You have to be doing something,” Dean said, sitting up and moving closer to Cas. “Some angel mojo or Enochian spell. Something…” He trailed off, watching the confusion spread across Cas’ face.

“I am simply touching your arm,” Cas said. “I’m too weak to do much else.” There was a deep frown on Cas’ face now as he pulled Dean’s arm closer and slid his fingers down to Dean’s wrist to uncover the angry red scar of the Mark of Cain.

Cas took the hand stained with blood from his wound and traced the ridges of the scar. Dean flinched in expectation of the rush of heat, but the Mark barely flickered before going dormant again.

“What has it done to you?” Cas said so quietly Dean almost missed it. He raised his eyes slowly to look at Dean and asked, “Is this why you became a -” Cas cut himself off and averted his eyes back down.

“A demon?” Dean offered, his voice cracking. Cas glanced back up with pity in his eyes, but Dean didn’t want it. “I know what I am,” he said softly. It hurt to admit, but he tried not to let it show. “The Mark always needs a master. It wouldn’t let me die. It turned me into...this.” Dean sighed. “I’m all kinds of messed up, Cas.”

Cas brushed his fingers along the Mark. “Dean -”

“Let’s get you fixed up,” Dean interrupted, getting to his feet and pulling Cas up with him. Cas groaned and leaned heavily against Dean once he was upright. Cas’ nails dug into Dean’s arm, but he didn’t ask him to loosen his grip. With slow steps, Dean led Cas across his room to his bed. The whole way there Dean kept his hand pressed firmly against Cas’ wound and despite the warm and sticky mess under his fingers, his head remained clear. 

Cas made a small noise of discomfort as Dean helped him lie down, but once he was settled on top of the covers with a pillow under his head, he let out a soft sigh of relief. His fingers loosened their grip, but he didn’t let go completely. 

Dean focused on the way Cas’ fingers brushed back and forth over the Mark as he peeled back the torn suit from Cas’ side. Next was the buttoned shirt that had to be undone. Dean’s hands shook more with each button as bit by bit the shirt fell open. Cas pressed more firmly on the Mark, but it wasn’t the reason Dean was shaking.

Cas used his other hand to tug the bottom of his shirt that had been tucked into his pants free, and Dean carefully pull it away from the wound, wincing in sympathy with Cas when it got caught in the congealing blood. 

Fresh blood started to leak out of the three deep gashes that marred Cas’ ribs and Dean reeled back with his breath coming out in short gasps. “I can’t -” he started to say, trying to take a step back, but the hand that had been on the Mark of Cain shifted to grasp his own hand.

“You can, Dean,” Cas said and Dean looked away. “Please.” Cas squeezed his hand. “I need you to try.”

Swallowing hard, Dean nodded. He pulled his hand out of Cas’ and summoned a first aid kit out of thin air. Putting it down in the space between Cas and the edge of the bed, Dean opened the kit. He glanced at Cas and saw the angel’s eyes were closed, but the twisted grimace on his face told Dean he hadn’t passed out yet. Dean’s eyes moved down to the bloody mess on Cas’ side for a moment before he looked quickly away.

Not quickly enough though. The bright red blood started the fire under his skin and the Mark burned once more. Dean grit his teeth against the whispering urges that had started again in his mind and pulled out what he needed from the first aid kit. Disinfectant wipes, local anesthetic, a needle and sterile thread, gauze pads, tape, and an Ace bandage to hold everything in place at the end. He left bloody fingerprints on all of it and his hands started shaking again. This time it was because of the Mark.

Out of habit Dean reached to his waist for the comfort of the First Blade only to find it wasn’t there. He spun around in a sudden panic and saw it lying on the floor where he’d dropped it at the end of his fight with Cas. His chest was tight. He couldn’t remember the last time the weight of the First Blade hadn’t been on his hip. Feeling naked and vulnerable without it, he made to hurry to it, but familiar fingers caught his wrist before he could move away.

He turned to find Cas’ eyes open and boring into his own with a mixture of worry and caring. “Leave it,” he said in a voice barely over a whisper. “You don’t need it.”

“But…” Dean started to protest, gaze shifting back to the blade on the ground. He did need it. It was the only thing that could stop the shaking of the repressed rage. Holding it took away the awful guilt that always tried to crush him.

The hand on his wrist tightened and he looked to Cas who pulled himself into a seat position with a grimace. Cas laid his other hand over the Mark and the tightness in his chest lessened.

“Dean.” Cas said it like a command, but there was concern laced underneath. “You have to trust me.”

Unable to look him in the eye, Dean let his head drop and found himself staring at the open wounds on Cas’ side. “There’s so much blood,” he whispered before he could stop himself. “I can’t...I’ll hurt you.” Dean’s voice broke at the end and he tried to pull away, but Cas’ grip held him still.

“You can do this,” Cas said and the conviction in his voice almost made Dean believe it too. Cas’ fingers traced the Mark on his arm and Dean focused on the contact. “I’ll be right here,” Cas said. The hand on Dean’s wrist moved to his chin, tilting his head up to force their eyes to meet once more. Cas fixed him with a serious stare for a long moment. “I trust you.”

Dean swallowed, uncomfortable with how close they were, but at the same time enjoying how familiar it was. It reminded him of his life before the Mark of Cain had taken hold of him. Casting one last long glance behind him at the First Blade, Dean nodded and Cas sighed, lying flat on the bed once more, his face more ashen than before.

In his mind Dean cursed himself for being so weak when Cas was in pain. He returned his focus to the medical supplies, opening the the disinfectant wipes and sitting on the edge of the bed to reach Cas’ side. Acutely aware of the constant brushing of Cas’ fingers back and forth along the Mark, Dean took a deep breath and began the task of cleaning the blood and dirt around the wounds.

Cas hissed and the hand over the Mark of Cain tightened. Dean didn’t stop, but looked up to see a twisted grimace on Cas’ face and his head turned up and away from the pain. And it made Dean feel terrible.

He was so surprised he froze, the disinfectant wipe lifted off Cas’ wounds. When was the last time he hadn’t felt exhilaration and glee from inflicting pain?

“Dean?” Cas asked, snapping him out of his daze. 

“I’m...sorry,” Dean replied, haltingly. He hadn’t spoken those words in so long it was hard to get out.

Cas’ fingers brushed against the Mark. Back and forth. Back and forth. “It’s alright,” Cas said, guiding Dean’s hand back to his side. Dean returned to cleaning the wounds, moving as fast as he dared and constantly glancing back to Cas who keep his jaw locked and a steady gaze on Dean. 

As he wiped away all the blood, Dean got his first good look at the gashes marring Cas’ side. 

Three long stripes of red had been left by something with jagged claws dwelling in Purgatory. Dean’s heart clenched, picturing Cas in that horrid place. His halo like a beacon drawing monsters to him and for what? To sneak into Hell and find Dean only to be faced with a pair of black eyes. 

“You shouldn’t have come, Cas,” Dean said, not meeting Cas’ eyes. He dropped the disinfectant wipes and picked up the bottle of anesthetic. Dabbing the strong smelling liquid on a cloth, Dean pressed it to the wounds. Cas flinched away and Dean pulled back, concerned. “Does that hurt?”

Cas shook his head, but shifted away again when Dean went to apply the anesthetic. “It’s cold,” Cas said and Dean almost smiled at that. Something about having Cas acting so childlike made the situation less surreal. Like Cas lying on his bed in Hell wasn’t a dream about to dissolve on him. 

Clamping one hand down on Cas’ stomach, Dean rubbed the anesthetic on, ignoring Cas’ squirming and the way his fingers dug into the Mark in irritation. “See, that wasn’t so bad,” Dean said as he finished and Cas let out a small huff in response.

Setting aside the cloth, Dean picked up the needle and started to thread it, remembering the hundreds of times he’d done this before for his own and Sammy’s injuries. Cas watched him, his blue eyes full of apprehension of the needle in Dean’s hand. “Do you not want me here?” He asked suddenly and Dean paused, turning to him.

“What?”

“Before you said I shouldn’t have come,” Cas said. “Is that because you don’t want me here? Are you uncomfortable with me seeing you like this?”

Dean busied himself with knotting the thread. After a moment his fingers stilled. “I thought I would mind you seeing me like this, but you haven’t freaked out yet or smote me, so...it don’t bother me if it don’t bother you.”

There was a small sad smile on Cas’ lips as he replied, “It doesn’t bother me.” Dean quickly ducked his head to keep Cas from seeing the relief in his eyes and focused on getting ready to make the first stitch. He froze as Cas spoke again. “For a long time I thought you had died, Dean. To find you now - even as a demon - is better than you being lost forever.” 

Dean tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. He settled for nodding and rolled the needle in his fingers before setting it against Cas’ skin. “This is going to hurt,” he warned Cas in a quiet voice. Cas winced at the first stitch and the rhythm of his fingers on the Mark quickened.

After the first few stitches Dean said, “You shouldn’t have come because you could have gotten yourself hurt worse than this.” The implied ‘or killed’ hung in the air unspoken. 

“I’ve been to Purgatory. Fighting your way through it isn’t a picnic. And Hell doesn’t exactly throw welcome parties for angels.” Dean finished the first scratch and moved on to the second. “Breaking in was dangerous.”

Cas’ eyes were half closed. The local anesthetic obviously didn’t block all the pain, but despite it his voice was soft. “I did it for you once before.”

Dean faltered. Last time Cas had come to Hell to he had raised Dean as the righteous man. Bringing him back to life on earth. Unable to speak above a whisper, Dean asked, “Did you come to raise me again?”

There was a long pause before Cas looked to Dean, eyes open fully and regret etched clearly on his face. “I can’t, Dean,” Cas said. “A demon entering Heaven is as dangerous as an angel walking into Hell.”

Dean forced himself to keep working, one stitch at a time. Second scratch finished, he moved on to the third. “I know I don’t deserve Heaven, but you can bring me back to earth,” he said, unable to keep the plea out of his voice. “I’ll find some far off place where I won’t bother anyone. Hunters, angels, no one will even know I’m there.” Cas turned away and Dean’s voice cracked. “Please.”

“That is what Cain did when he carried the Mark,” Cas said, still not meeting Dean’s eyes. “He turned his back on the world and didn’t care about its problems. Is that the life you want?”

It wasn’t. Not really. “Anything would be better than this,” Dean said, gesturing to the dark furnishings of the room that reminded him just what kind of world he was the ruler of. 

He finished the last stitch as Cas looked at him again, his eyes full of sadness and sympathy.

“You entered Hell of your own volition, Dean. I wondered for a long time why you would do that, but the answer should have been obvious. You took the throne in Hell to do what you have always done. Save people.” 

Dean tried to turn away, but Cas caught his chin. “You are making a difference down here,” Cas said. “I know what you’ve done as King. No more deals and no possessions. The only time you allow demons venture to earth you send them to kill other monsters and in Purgatory they fight to keep anything evil from clawing their way back out. Because of you, hunters have nothing left to hunt and they have all retired. Even Sam.”

“Sam?” Dean said, straightening up. “He retired?”

“Yes and settled down,” Cas replied, smiling. “He was blessed with a wife, a daughter, and a few grandchildren.” There was a slight pause when the smile on Cas’ face slipped slightly, but looking deeply into Dean’s eyes he continued. “They were all with him when he died two years ago.”

Dean felt his world crashing down at the same time a wave of relief swept through him. Sammy had died, but his soul had never come to Hell. 

“The cause was natural,” Cas said, his voice soft. “I’ve been to his heaven. He’s happy, Dean.”

“Good.” The word came out half choked and Dean realized his eyes were full of tears threatening to spill. He wiped them away quickly and found Cas watching him. Clearing his throat and hoping to prevent this from turning into more of a chick flick moment than it was already, Dean grabbed the gauze pads and placed them over the stitched up wounds. He taped them down and picked up the rolled up bandage. 

“You’re going to have to sit up,” Dean said and Cas nodded. With a grimace he pushed himself up and Dean gripped his shoulder to keep him steady. “You’re...uh...going to have to lose the coat and shirt too,” Dean said, hoping Cas didn’t notice the blush warming his cheeks. 

Cas nodded wearily and started to pull the blood stained and ripped clothes off, but hissed in pain. “Here,” Dean said, guiding Cas’ arm out of the sleeve. Cas tried to help, but soon gave up and just let Dean do it for him. Once the coat and shirt lay in a heap on the floor, Dean glanced at Cas’ bare chest before looking away hastily. “This’ll keep those pads from slipping off,” Dean said, starting to unwind the bandage. He glanced at Cas again. “Arms out.”

Cas obeyed, raising his arms out to the sides so Dean could wrap the bandage around his midsection. Dean focused on what he was doing, aware of how close they were. Close enough that he could hear Cas’ breathing. 

“There,” Dean said, pulling away as soon as he finished. “Should be good enough until you get your mojo back.”

Cas looked down, gently touching the bandage and then met Dean’s eyes, smiling. “See, you did it.”

Dean smiled back. “Thanks to you.”

“No,” Cas said, looking down at the Mark on Dean’s arm. “You did it all by yourself.” 

Dean looked at the Mark too and his breath caught in his throat. He’d been so caught up in bandaging Cas and their conversation that he hadn’t noticed when Cas’ touch had left. Cas had a smile on his face, but fear was swirling in Dean’s stomach. How long ago had Cas let go? His touch was the only thing that had been keeping the urges of the Mark of Cain at bay. Without it the Mark would once more be in control.

Dean cast his eyes behind him where the First Blade laid on the ground, waiting for him to pick it up once more. How could Dean be so foolish to believe he didn’t need it?

“Dean,” Cas said, squeezing his hand and drawing his attention back to him. “It’s just an old bone. Any power it has over you is only as strong as you let it be.”

Cas didn’t understand. Dean was too weak to resist. “But the Mark-”

“You can’t let it control you, Dean,” Cas said, anger in his voice. His hands moved to grip Dean’s shoulders in place and force him to look at him. “Fight it. Please. I know that man you were before it is still in there.”

Dean wanted to believe it, but he’d tried so many times to fight the Mark of Cain only to cave to it in the end. What would make this time any different?

_Because Cas is here. _The small voice of optimism said in his mind. It had been so long since he’d heard it. It sounded a little like Sam. _You have someone to fight for now _.____

But Cas would leave as soon as he was healed. The thought left a bitter taste on Dean’s tongue. He looked down to the Mark on his arm, knowing if Cas left he would be at the complete mercy of its power again. Dean could see now why Cas won’t bring him back to earth. He was a monster. A dangerous murderer driven by an insatiable bloodlust. He deserved Hell and Cas knew that.

“So if you aren’t here to raise me, why did you even come?” Dean asked, the hurt in his voice evident. It was cruel to have given him the flicker of hope only to snuff it out again. He didn’t know what answer he expected, but it wasn’t the one Cas gave.

“I came because I thought you might be lonely,” Cas replied and if Dean had any doubts about Cas’ sincerity they vanished with Cas’ eyes locked on his and full of caring.

_“You will spend eternity down here. Alone, miserable, hating every second of your damned existence…” _Dean remembered how the blind prisoner’s words had struck him like a knife to the heart. He had left everything and everyone behind when he’d come to Hell. Miserable didn’t even being to describe it. But now Cas was here telling him that despite the years he hadn’t been forgotten.__

Dean couldn’t find the words to say what he felt. He pulled Cas into a hug, his fingers curling against Cas’ warm skin. “Thanks Cas,” he whispered his voice husky with the emotions he held back.

Cas was stiff at first, surprised by Dean’s sudden reaction, but after a moment he wrapped his arms around Dean as well and let his head fall comfortably on Dean’s shoulder. He was hugging Dean just as tight as Dean hugged him. When he spoke his voice was so soft Dean would have missed it if his lips hadn’t been an inch from his ear. “And I was lonely too.”

Dean slowly pulled back, just enough so they could look each other in the eye and found himself staring at Cas’ lips wanting to kiss him, but scared of what Cas would do. He lifted his gaze to Cas’ eyes, hoping to see mutual feelings there, but if there were he didn’t notice as the dark circles and heavy lids distracted him.

“You’re tired,” he said, kicking himself mentally for being so stupid. Of course Cas was tired. He just fought his way through Purgatory and his angel batteries were drained. “You should lie down,” Dean said, gently pulling out of Cas’ arms, but Cas’ hand caught his wrist.

“You should too,” Cas said. His fingers brushed briefly over the Mark. “You’ve been through a lot and resting will be good for the both of us.”

Dean wanted to protest, but there was something in the way Cas looked at him that made him reply, “Okay,” before he realized what he was saying. He waved his hand and the first aid kit and its contents disappeared. He made sure Cas was settled down comfortably before walking to the other side of the bed and lying down.

There was a long moment of silence in which Dean studied the cracks of the black rock ceiling above. The bed shifted and he glanced at Cas who had rolled onto his good side. “We don’t have to be lonely anymore,” Cas said. 

Dean’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?” They’d already been through this. He couldn’t go to Heaven and he was too dangerous to return to earth. Hell was the only place where he belonged and that meant he’d be alone unless… 

“No, Cas,” Dean said rolling onto his side as well to face Cas. He couldn’t believe what Cas was suggesting. “ You can’t stay here.”

Cas frowned, a stubborn light in his eyes. “Yes I can, Dean,” he said not harshly, but with a tone made it clear Dean wouldn’t be able to argue with him on this. Dean argued anyway.

“You shouldn’t be in Hell,” he said. He’d been to both Heaven and Hell and knew which one Cas belonged in. “You’re an angel. You don’t belong in the darkness down here.”

“And neither do you,” Cas replied without hesitation. “If that Mark of Cain hadn’t interfered, you would be in Heaven. You saved the world more times than any human in history. You’re a hero, Dean.”

“Maybe once,” Dean said. He rolled back, facing the black ceiling once more. Cas was wrong. He hadn’t been a hero in a long time. “But I’m a demon now. A murderer. I’m the _King of Hell _for godsake!”__

“Damnit, Dean! I don’t care!”

Before Dean could stop him, Cas shifted across the bed and Dean found himself with a very angry Cas pinning him to the bed. 

“I have walked the earth for more years than you can fathom, but I’ve only truly felt alive during the six years I knew you.” Cas’ fingers dug into Dean’s shoulders, keeping him from getting out from under his grip. “Everything I did since I met you, I did for you. It confused me sometimes, this instinct I had to be near you, to help you like no other angel ever help a human, but I followed it because it felt so right.”

The small struggle Dean had originally put up when Cas pinned him was gone and he lay still, staring in shock at the words tumbling out of Cas’ mouth.

“You found the humanity in me and brought it to light,” Cas said, the anger leaving his voice, but the urgency of his words remained. “I felt things I’d never felt before when I was around you and felt them even stronger when we were apart. When Metatron told me he had killed you, it hurt so much I thought I would die as well. I still didn’t understand. I wandered Heaven in search of answers and found them in the soulmates. The ones connected so deeply on earth that they remained together in Heaven. They held the same feelings I did.”

Dean’s lips were parted in shock of the confessions spilling out of Cas’ mouth. He could only get one word out though. “Cas…”

“I heard of the new king who had taken over Hell. I had to come see if it was true,” Cas continued. His head dipped down, eyes shifting away, ashamed. “But the angels were still rebuilding. I couldn’t leave them until some semblance of order had been restored. Once there was, I walked away for the last time.”

Cas looked Dean squarely in the eye and Dean once more could see the sincerity in his gaze as he said, “You think I will regret choosing to stay, but I know I won’t. The only regret I will ever have when it comes to you is not acting on my feelings. I have regretted it every day since you died.”

As the final words rung in Dean’s ears, Cas leaned down closer, their noses nearly touching. Dean didn’t know when, but at some point he had stopped breathing. Cas on the other hand was breathing heavily, his eyes searching Dean’s in a nervous way. 

He hesitated at the final two inch gap between them. Dean could tell Cas was unsure and smiled at him. It was all the encouragement Cas needed and he closed the space between them.

The soft lips on Dean’s made everything else vanish. The anger, the pain, the fear, and the guilt weighing him down like a rock in his stomach were gone and the feeling of happiness that replaced it all was so foreign, so missed, it shot though Dean like a bolt of lightning and made him jerk away.

The contact broken, everything returned to how it had been before, but the lingering feeling of happiness remained as Dean stared frozen at Cas above him, panting slightly. He still felt rage and he still knew he was a monster, but the small warmth Cas had kindled inside him acted like a shield against it all. It felt like he was coming up for air after having been drowning for years. 

“Dean?” Cas’ voice broke through his stunned thoughts. Dean blinked and felt a tear slip down his face. Cas caught it and rubbed away the trail it left. “Why are you crying?”

Dean didn’t answer. As two more tears slid down his cheeks, he sat up with Cas in his lap and pulled him into a second kiss, deep and frantic. Moving his hands around Cas’ back, Dean gripped Cas’ hips, pulling Cas as close as possible to him.

Time was always hard to judge in Hell, but Dean was sure the desperate kiss lasted an eternity. When their lips did part it was only for a momentary breath of air before their lips met again at a slower pace. Dean felt himself relax into Cas arms as everything he’d been holding together inside fell apart. 

His shoulders shook and his head dropped to Cas’ chest, finding comfort in the nook Cas’ neck formed with his collarbone. Cas arms were around him - one on the back of his neck, running fingers softly through his hair, and the other on his back trailing up and down his spine.

“I’m not leaving, Dean,” Cas said, leaning his head against Dean’s. “I’ve spent a long time on heaven and on earth. The light is beautiful, but it only shines because of the darkness. Equal parts, two sides of the coin, they have been compared in many ways. Simply stated, the world needs both Heaven and Hell. At one point we were the light, but now we’ll stand on the other side. Together, we will be the darkness.”

Not trusting himself to speak, Dean nodded into Cas’ neck. He shouldn’t have felt so happy. They were agreeing to spend eternity in Hell, but they were agreeing to spend eternity together and in the end that was all that mattered to him. 

And with Cas beside him, he doubted Hell would ever feel dark again.

“I had the same regrets, you know,” Dean muttered, chuckling because of all the emotions suddenly pouring out of him. “Always wished I’d told you, but I was...afraid.”

“I understand,” Cas said, pulling back and Dean lifted his head to look at him. “Now we...” 

Dean raised an eyebrow at the way Cas trailed off and his eyes suddenly widened. “What is it Cas?”

Cas seemed almost entranced for a moment, unable to reply, but then he blinked. “Your eyes, Dean,” he said, reaching out to cup both sides of Dean’s face. “They’re...green.”

“What?” Dean asked, touching the corners of his eyes like he could feel the change. “Are you serious?” 

Cas nodded, a look of awe on his face, and Dean swallowed hard, his heart beating painfully fast. As gently as he could in his haste, he moved Cas from his lap to the bed and jumped to his feet, all but running to the bathroom.

He pulled up short in front of the sink and leaned against it, staring into the cracked mirror. His excitement instantly melted into deep disappointed to see only black pools looking back at him. To make it even worse, the Mark of Cain flared so suddenly at the sight of them, Dean groaned, grabbing it with his other hand and pulling it close to his chest. 

“Dean...are you okay?” 

Cas stumbled into the bathroom with a hand on his side and his face ashen. He tried to walk to Dean, but Dean moved to him, wrapping an arm around him to steady him. 

“You shouldn’t be up,” Dean said maneuvering Cas so he was leaning against the sink for support. Dean stood in front of him, frowning. “You need to rest if you…” Whatever else he had been going to say dies in his throat as he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror over Cas’ shoulder.

He blinks, just to make sure, but his eyes are green. Normal _human _green eyes. “I don’t understand,” he says, glancing at Cas and then back at his reflection. In all the years since he’d been turned into a demon he’d never been able to make his eyes change. Not once. But after kissing Cas, everything felt different.__

Cas reached up a hand to Dean’s cheek and rubbed just under his eye. “Your humanity is returning. Not completely of course, but enough to change your eyes. This,” Cas said staring Dean straight in the eye. “This proves you are stronger than the Mark of Cain.”

“Maybe I am,” Dean said softly, starting to believe it himself. He looked down at the Mark on his arm. It seemed harmless now. A scar, but scars were proof he’d survived the fight. He knew it would never be gone completely, but now he had control over it and he knew who was to thank for that. “I’m strongest with you beside me,” he said to Cas. With his angel beside him his eyes were green and his head was clear. “Thanks for staying, Cas,” he murmured and Cas smiled, entwining his fingers with Dean’s.

“For you, anything.”

**Author's Note:**

> **Special thanks to my editor R.M. for all her help. As Dean Winchester would say, you’re awesome.**


End file.
